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by crypt_mirror



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne and introspection, Canon Death, Death Fic, First POV ---ish, M/M, New52, New52 Superman, angst like whoa, only the death is canon, past relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 16:34:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7369342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crypt_mirror/pseuds/crypt_mirror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce takes Clark ...home.</p><p><a href="http://drenched-in-sunlight.tumblr.com/post/146851329880">Albilibertea's art</a> For this fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> DC killed New52 Superman in the comics to give way to their new initiative Rebirth DC. So Superman here is dying as a result of several story lines which had him a) dive into the Fire Pits of Apokolips B) Undergo Kryptonite Chemotherapy to regenerate his powers so he could fight Vandal Savage but in doing so his healthy cells began dying slowly C) Fight Rao—Krypton’s Sun God who came to Earth – who (from what I understood after quickly reading through that storyline. Rao wanted to use Supes DNA to make more Kryptonians..yup) 
> 
> In New52 superman he lost his parents when he was still a teenager.
> 
> Also a tribute to New 52 - Batman Superman #18 which I believe is the most SuperBat of this series. It's basically DC telling us they're both in love and of course it's canon. Yesss.
> 
> In the last book of Superman #52 basically Clark fights with impostor Superman --- his already weakened body could not take it anymore and he dies after the fight. Well, then of course I can’t just leave that like that—there was a very short Superbat moment in #51 whatever so I intend to remedy that. So let’s start this story after that fight…

 

 

  
I didn't understand it then. I had been sick for almost a week. Father was a doctor. Mother was always there and of course, Alfred, coaxing me to eat, drink and to take the too bitter medicine. One day I heard Mother and Father talk in the hallway. The low urgent voices that adults use when they try not to talk loud but still horribly fail at it.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Martha, his lungs are not clearing up, I'm afraid—"

 

I wasn't supposed to get out of bed but I got restless and curious. As I stood there in my pajamas, I felt my chest get too tight and it was getting harder to breath. I wanted to run back to my bed, thinking how mad Father would be because I disobeyed him. Of course I was too young to realize how sick I was, the next thing I knew I became overwhelmingly tired– I tried but I couldn't stop myself from falling and hit the floor hard. My parents must have heard me, footsteps came rushing. I looked up to see my Father holding me in his arms.

 

“It's ok Bruce.”

 

Then I fell asleep.

 

It turned out my pneumonia had gotten worse. When I woke up, there was a mask on my face, blowing warm air. I felt the insides of my chest being squeezed and it hurt to even breath. There was a lot of people standing around looking down on me. All in white coats. Father’s face appeared right next to mine, Mother’s was next to him, clearly crying. I tried to talk but I couldn't, I was very, very scared. I wanted to get out, out of the bed, out of the room with too many people. I just wanted to go home.

 

“Bruce, you're going to sleep now. When you wake up everything will be fine. Mom and I will be right here.”

 

When I opened my eyes again, I saw my Mother and Father’s face. I tried to speak but my throat was too sore. I was very uncomfortable but my parents looked happy.

 

“Everything’s fine now Bruce.”

 

My Father explained it later. My lungs had a bad infection. They had to put a long tube in my mouth that passed through my throat then all the way down to the space between my lungs, so I could get air from a special machine. But it was important for me to be asleep to get better.

 

I was seven, I did not care about the infection in my lungs, or the special machine for breathing, all I cared about was that I fell asleep and then I woke up and things were better, Mom and Dad were smiling and we could all go home.

 

 

Standing here in the middle of the field I watch you float towards me, I see you smile to reassure them that everything is fine now. Nothing betrays the pain and exhaustion you feel. There is nothing else I want to do Clark but take you in my arms and tell you;

 

_Go to sleep, when you wake up, things will be better._

 

But I am a pragmatist I could never tell you that. The pragmatist in me, tells me to also stay here by your side, silent... betray no emotions. It shouldn't be hard I am Batman after all, easy enough with the cowl that I wear. Batman, the thing that criminals fear, the strategist that fellow heroes respect and depend on, always the calm, cool one that people expect to have a plan – and not just a plan A, but also a plan B and several other plans in case all else fails.

 

 

You stand next to me. Your fingers brush mine. You feel cold. _Have I ever known you to be cold, Clark?_

 

The fatigue, the cold, it's not just from battle. We talked about what has been slowly consuming you, the Kryptonite in your bloodstream. Kryptonite chemotherapy was needed for you to regain your powers so you can fight. The same substance is now killing off the healthy cells in your body. The time has come when not even the sun can sustain you anymore.

 

“Bruce please take me home,"you say.

 

I nod. In all the time I have known you, it's always the Fortress, the apartment, sometimes the Manor, but there is only one place you called...Home.

 

I tap my comm and relayed our request for the teleporter. My gaze falls on Kara and Diana, Kara leaning on Diana as Diana holds her tight. They know it’s almost time, goodbyes have been said. They look at me with a long look trusting that I would take care of you.

 

We stand on one side of the field. Another enemy had been defeated, the fiery impostor that called itself Superman. Other members of the league are also around. They respectfully give us space. They all fell silent as the teleporter beam activated around us and we dematerialize.

 

We arrive at the Kent farm. The yellow house with the rust red barn. The beam had transported us on the field at the back of the house.

 

"We can go to the Fortress.” I say firmly. “I could still look at the data banks. Find something— “

 

I stop talking as you shake your head, you look at me with those eyes. Blue eyes now tainted with the vivid green of the poison killing you. Even your skin is marred by green feather like veins, another reminder of the poison coursing through you.

 

“Bruce, please. We both knew this was coming. I just wanted to be here, to come home.” You say this patiently as if you were explaining something to a small child.

 

A sliver of pain starts in my chest. Of course we've talked about this. This was what you wanted, because there is nothing else that could be done for you. I don't speak, I turn and walk towards the house. You don't say anything, you are accustomed to my sudden arrivals and departures.

 

I go inside the house, take off my uniform and change into comfortable clothes. Because of the summer solstice, the sun lingers up in the horizon longer. I still find you outside the house, in the middle of that field where I left you. You hover above the gold of the wheatfield. I drink the sight of you. Majestic and brilliant against the blues, purples and oranges of the now setting sun, your red cape gently teased by the wind. I can hold on to this, this memory, I have to.

 

My steps lead me to you. You float closer to the ground beside me. I know right now if you could still fly high, up and away I know you would have done it already and just stay up above the clouds with the sun. Of all your gifts, you had told me flying _was_ , no _is_ your favorite. But even that you could not do anymore.

 

“I'm glad I kept the farm. I thought I wanted  to sell it once I started to spend more time in Metropolis... I'm happy I didn't.”

 

“It's good land, Clark. You could've have done something with it.” _Could have._ Past tense, not you _can still._ The simple precision of language has never been so painful.

 

I know you are leaving the farm to me. We have discussed as much. You have told that if possible you wanted it to be a home too for another family. A Mom a Dad and 2.5 kids, Clark? I had answered you, with pain dressed in sarcasm. Would you like them to have a dog too? You didn't say anything, you just looked me with the still too blue eyes that begged for understanding. I heaved a mental sigh. Isn't this just like you Clark. You just do that to me. Throwing a wrench in my so called ordered life. You take it up to yourself to always fight the bigger bad, because of who you are and what you think is your place in the world, when all I wanted was—

 

 _All I wanted …was…All I want right now.._.

 

I feel you take my hand. “Let’s go inside, Bruce.”

 

Everything is as you left it. Everything is as your parents had left the house. The beige comfortable couches with your Mom’s throw pillows. The sturdy table in the middle that holds picture frames and photo albums. A stack of books on top of the corner table. It includes a worn dictionary from your childhood and the latest phone book. I know you’ve probably never or will ever use a phone book, but you get a new copy every year and place it at that same exact spot. Just where your parents had it. Even the quilts your mother made are clean and neatly folded in the closet. We are both orphans you and I, maybe that's why we tolerate each other.

 

The house breathes of memories. Memories that comfort. Memories that can hold you in ways I will never be able to. You sigh softly as you look around. The toll that the day has taken clearly evident in your face. I hold back my words I want to give you space, this is your time.

 

You smile briefly, I suspect mostly for my benefit. “I think I need to go to bed. Long day and all that.”

 

“Yeah, long day.” I said my voice, neutral.

 

“There's food in the fridge, Bruce.” Your voice trails down as you float up the stairs.

 

I open the fridge. Clark, you don't need to eat. But you’re always considerate to a fault. You come here every week to check on the house. Stock the fridge. Clean the house. You make use of your abilities to be able to zip around the world in minutes. These are small things, mundane even, people would think, for the most powerful being this side of the universe. But these small things help you to be the man that you are and in effect be the Superman for all of us.

 

I grab something quick and easy. A ready-made sandwich from your favorite deli and a yogurt. I barely taste the food. I'm thinking but trying not to think (virtually impossible for me, you know that) because I know you don't want me to do this. I could barely chew my food now. I'm getting angry. I dump everything in the garbage, unfinished.

 

There is no fucking way, I'm going to let this happen.

 

I run up to your room and open the door too quickly barely slowing down.

 

"You can't ask me to sit here and just watch you die!”

 

On the edge of the bed you sit there with just your boxers. I look at you. You meet my eyes puzzled at first, then I see a realization sets on your face, a crease forms in between your brows. You still look good. Slightly green, but still good. This is more than I've had to work with in past situations. I've held you in my arms in the worst of conditions. Times when you were barely breathing, times when you were bleeding, times when I had to dig out Kryptonite from inside you, a time when you transformed into a monster because of the Doomsday virus. If we got out of those, then we can do this. Yes, I'm a pragmatist. And in my world this is the reality–  _you cannot just die!_

 

“You can't just die. Clark.” I say to him as evenly as I could. “I've done so much for people that don't even deserve it. How dare you tell me that I can't do shit for you. If you don't want to go to the Fortress, you're coming with me to the cave.”

 

I still have my comm. I activate it. “Cyborg, lock on–"

 

You stand up and place a firm hand on my bicep. We are so close, our noses almost touch. I avoid your gaze as I glare at your hand on my arm…

 

"Good!” I growl at him. “Hold on to me we’re going.”

 

“Batman, Cyborg here. Confirm.”

 

“Bruce, please.” Your voice always had that quiet strength, now it sounds so desperate. It carries the reminder of a promise I made to you in the cave less than a week ago. Then I make a mistake. I look at your eyes.

 

“Batman. I'm locking onto your signal.” Cyborg gives me another verbal prompt, he senses something, he has worked long enough with me though to know I'm not in danger.

 

We freeze for milliseconds. You know you won't be able to stop me. You rely on a promise. I've broken promises. Manipulated people...situations to win.

 

_All I want is my best friend back._

 

“Shit! Damn it! Clark!”

 

“Batman?”

 

“Cyborg cancel transport.”

 

“Batman are you sure? Do you need back up?” Each comm has a very specific frequency that only Victor can interpret, it is one of the fail safes we have built. He knows without question its me.

 

“I'm sure. Thank you, Cyborg. Batman out.”

 

You sigh. I turn abruptly, you let go, I start towards the door.

 

“Bruce. Please stay.” Behind me I hear you move back to the bed and sit on its edge heavily.

 

Now or never Bruce. I slam the door shut. I punch the wall.

 

“I'm sorry Bruce.” You say softly in your Superman voice, your real voice. The voice you use to comfort, to calm. “I'm sorry for asking you to do this. Bruce, trust me when I tell you I've looked for a cure and there is nothing.”

 

“How can you accept that!” I hate how I sound right now. But I can't hold back, not anymore.

 

During all this time I've somehow drifted closer to you once again. You grab my hand and pull me then examine my knuckles carefully. I don't need you to worry about me, not right now. You stop, satisfied that I didn't tear or break anything, yet you don't let go. Once again I feel the coldness of your skin. _When were you ever so cold, Clark?_  Another heavy blade of pain drags from my throat to my chest. 

 

You look up at me. _Green irises._ “If I ever, meant anything to you. Please, Bruce. I don't want to be alone and you're the only one…” You pause. Your breath hitches.

 

It's dark outside. We didn't even notice it. It's just the light of a full moon, it illuminates the space between us.

 

"The only one, I want to be with right now.”

 

And with that, you win Clark. You win.

 

No words are spoken. You let go. You can read me in ways that only you can. You slip under the sheets. I slide next to you. It is the most natural thing to do. Your breath, a contented sigh.You lay your head on my chest like you did along time ago and just as easily you fall asleep.

 

There was a time– it seemed so long ago now. I would come home from my patrol and find you still sprawled in bed, shirtless, asleep, facing the side closest to the window, towards the sun. You sleep, seemingly without a care after a day spent catching planes, towing ocean liners, saving people from natural disasters and disasters they have bought upon themselves while keeping up your job as Clark Kent. Once, you told me you really don't need sleep if you have enough sun. But you like sleeping because it was a very human thing to do. You like the idea of falling into a bed, shrugging off the day. Yet even as you sleep, you never truly shut out the world.

_______________________________

 

Sometime during the night I wake up, a sudden awareness of something out of place shakes me out of a troubling dream. I see you awake, leaning against the headboard looking out the window.

 

“Sorry, I woke up, couldn't go back to sleep.”

 

“Do you need anything?” To ask you if you were ok, seem banal.

 

“Nothing, Bruce I just can't sleep anymore. Figured it's a waste, anyway.” I feel your easy smile even in the dark.

 

I stay awake. We both don't mind the silence. Right now, I'm hoping that your senses have dulled. Hoping that you are not hearing pleas for help, disaster frequencies, the rumble of an oncoming earthquake. You deserve the peace.

 

“Bruce, have you ever wondered why we never became this.” You gesture at the space between us.

 

 _All the time._ “We made that decision. We decide it was the best for the team. Then things happened. Our lives became too complicated, took different trajectories.”

 

“So you're saying we did the right thing.” I can hear the challenge in your voice, I see it in the way you turn your head to look at me.

 

 _Don't …I can't ..can't think about what could've been. Not now._ “Yes, we did.” I say this firmly. You probably know I’m lying, but you did say one time that sometimes even with your enhanced senses you can never tell with me. I hope this is one of those times.

 

"Yet here we are, right now.” You say it so quietly, yet the words reverberate inside my head and I don't know anything anymore.

  
You lean towards me. The moonlight catches your eyes; they are strange green prisms in the dark. The sheet is just above my waist. You place the tips of your fingers on the long thick, rope like scar on my side, a thoughtful look on your face. A knife scar from the early days. Your gentle exploration makes me shudder.

 

“I remember the first time I saw this.”

 

“Oh? And what did you think?”

 

“That you were totally badass.”

 

I chuckle. “Badass, huh?”

 

You chuckle too, that deep one. A sound that I haven't heard for a while now.. I realize how much I miss it.

 

“Bruce, we were both wrong.”

 

I hear you say the words and I have no doubt of what they mean. It was like having the wind knocked out of me then breathing it in all at once and all I can hear in my head is the question, _Why now?_

 

I reach up to you, my hand curls around your neck as I draw you closer. You dip your head towards me. We meet halfway. I find your mouth. No more words. Words can be intoxicating yet terrifying. Instead we touch each other with haphazard enthusiasm like it was the first time. Fingers skitter over skin. Then hands, roam freely over each other then grasp as our bodies press against the other and we grind into each other's hardness. We awaken things we thought we buried but never let go. 

 

All I want right now is for time to slow down, I make the most irrational wish. Your hands grip my sides, my fingers are digging into the muscles of your back. Your skin feels warmer now. The same heat I feel when you would press your body against mine as you shield, to protect me in our many missions. That warmth and the feel of your body I used to find distracting. Now I just want every inch of that body on me. The feel of you is life and in many ways my life too.

 

I have known the dark. My soul has been rotted down to the very core as Gotham continues to take all that I can give. But now as I’m intertwined with you, your body will be the only heaven that I will ever know.

 

You rise up and straddle my hips. “Clark, are you sure.” I whisper urgently.

 

“Don’t worry, I’m fine.” Words you have said to me countless times.

 

I grip your sides. Your hands mold my chest, my torso. You take me into your mouth, then you release me, I moan brokenly at the lost of contact.

 

“God, shit! Clark, please.”

 

You catch my mouth, and we kiss fiercely as you push me down. You rise up onto your knees, and you ease yourself down. I could do nothing but close my eyes and grunt as our bodies connect. I hold you tight, as you take me inside you. Your warm, moist heat surrounding me , as I thrust inside you. You look so otherworldly in the moonlight, wild and powerful. Amid moans and gasps and desperate hands and kisses, a tangle of legs and arms -- I wish I could go back to us, the long ago version of us.

_____________________

 

We lay in silence for along time in quiet kisses, touching and holding each other never losing contact even as we shift positions. Now I hold you with your back against my chest.

 

“How are you?”

 

Another soft chuckle,”I really did not expect that. Talk about going out with a bang.”

 

“Clark Joseph Kent. That is the worst pun ever.” Still I smile and press a kiss on his shoulder.

 

I stroke your hair, committing to memory the feel of each strand in the same way I have imprinted every part of you in my soul.

 

“I can’t believe I’ll still be around. And Lex.” _Why does it have to be you?_

 

You laugh, an actual honest to goodness laugh. “You guys should get together once I’m gone.”

 

“Great, now I have a perfect excuse to kill him. Grief.”

 

You fall silent. We change positions and you throw an arm around me and pull me in, this time I lie on your chest.

 

You stroke my hip, my leg for a minute. “I’m scared, Bruce.”

 

“I’ll be right here. It'll be fine.” I say this even when all I wanted to do was tell you, that you can't say that because I’m scared too. Scared because my best friend is leaving me. The one who I confide to the most. The one who understands me the best.

 

We don't sleep anymore. We just wait. Wait for your time to come. Wait for morning. Inevitable things. Somehow you knew it was time. You put back your Superman suit. I find a gray long sleeve shirt and slacks that fit me.

 

You look at me approvingly,” You look great in my clothes, Bruce.”

 

“Well, it’s not plaid.” I say wryly.

 

“Look at you being funny.” You smile that carefree smile. The smile that lights up your eyes, your face, my heart.

 

It is almost dawn. We go down the stairs. I notice you take slow careful steps and don’t float anymore. Before we go out, you pick up a picture on the table. You, your parents. You’re dressed in a suit.

 

“Taken right before my prom.”

 

I turn away, I remember this story. That was the night your parents died, killed by a drunk driver. I step out of the house, holding the screen door open for you, I can feel the warmth of your skin as you stand next to me. This was not the usual temperature of your skin. It was a strange kind of warmth almost feverish. The small fissures on your skin, there more of them now, opening like cracks on your body. Through the fissures I don't see a sickly green, instead I see white light.

 

“That hill, Bruce. Next to that tree.” Your breath catches.

 

You unclasp your cape and hand it to me. I take it and hold it tight.

 

We start walking. You lean heavily on me. The cracks in your skin have become bigger. The temperature of your skin hotter. You sway, you steady yourself and hold on to my arm.

 

“I don't want to burn you. Just let me go.”

 

I put a palm on his face and leave it there for a moment. “Look you're not burning me Clark. The same temperature of a high fever. It’s ok.” _I'm not leaving you._

 

I stop, I pick you up. I hold you here in my arms. You lean against my chest.

 

“Always so strong.” You murmur against my chest. Your eyes are closed. I feel each effort you take as you breath.

 

“No, you were always the strong one. The best among us.”

 

"Arguing with me, till the very last time.”

 

“Of course.”

 

You took it the hardest every life that was lost because you didn’t get there in time, because of the choices that you have to make --- going to emergency A means that you can’t go to emergency B. You had to learn that even as Superman you can only do so much. But amid all the blood and failure since you started being a hero your strong sense of responsibility, of hope always prevailed.

 

You always fought harder, flew faster and gambled more in all our fights

 

“Clark, you are done fighting. It is time to rest.”

 

You take a deeper breath. “This tree. There used to be tire swing here. I broke that branch.” You talk in short gasps as I lean you against this tree up on this hill.

 

An old apple tree, you had told me once. Nobody can even remember when was the last time it actually had apples. But it's was a sturdy tree with nice sturdy thick branches. Great for little boys and their castles, pirate ships and battle forts.

 

“Taking everything I got to hang on, Bruce. Energy.. Burning inside … The pain is intense.”

 

I hold you tighter. Your fingers touch my face.

 

“Bruce, you're crying.”

 

“I guess I am.”

 

“This is a job for Superman.” You smile faintly as you fingers slowly slide down. I press my too wet cheek gently on your hand. I kiss your warm lips.

 

“Clark.”

 

“I love you Bruce Wayne. Always did. Always will.”

 

"I love _you_.”

 

All the fissures on your body open. The white light seeping through, become a harsh yellow. I stand back as this yellow fire within you consumes you and leaves me nothing but your ashes. Gray ashes.

 

I kneel next to your ashes. I cover them with your red cape. The air is still. It is very bright. A Kansas morning. The sun is high up in the horizon. High above the yellow house, the red barn, this tree.

 

Loss, regret. What is love without regret but I have to be grateful for this moment. This last moment of us. This moment when I could take you home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> Aahhh... Sort of a different point of view in writing these guys.
> 
> I really wanted to do write this, since New52 Supes died cause you know ....feels
> 
> I hope you guys like it. Kudos and comments are appreciated. Thanks!


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